


for there is thunder in our hearts

by floralaziraphale (glittercat)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Meet-Cute, Multi, No beta we fall like Crowley, Slow Burn, Will Add Tags As They Become Relevant, but theyre So Good at overthinking, they r both insecure and Bad at communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:23:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercat/pseuds/floralaziraphale
Summary: on one side of London lives a bored PhD student, studying in the local uni's history department; on the other, a shy coffeeshop barista with big plans for the future. their paths don't so much cross as tangle and twist together as they become friends - and eventually fall for each other.





	1. errands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning y'all and welcome to the Good Omens coffeeshop AU that nobody asked for! I know I'm not the first person to attempt something like this, but I figured I'd give it a shot. It's a good concept.
> 
> A few things to mention before we begin: all of the characters are human in this AU. obviously it's Crowley/Aziraphale-focused, but there's also some Beelzebub/Gabriel, and a bit of a friendship between Crowley and Beelzebub too. As far as character ages go, Azi is about 22, Crowley is 24; Beelzebub and Gabriel are both about 26. For the most part, I'm picturing younger versions of the actors in the miniseries as I write this, so there's a visual reference for you. That stuff isn't absolutely necessary to know or anything- just worth mentioning, I guess. 
> 
> Also worth mentioning: I'm gonna put together a playlist for this fic as it progresses, with one or maybe two songs for each chapter, not necessary related to the content of each chapter - just songs with a similar vibe to each bit of the story. Eventually I'll post links for that too! Song for this chapter is Another Tricky Day, by the Who.

It is a comfortably hot, sunny day in central London.

This has already taken many people by surprise, because central London is rarely, if ever, hot or sunny, and if it is, then it's usually _too _hot and sunny, and everyone begins to feel like they're melting. The humidity and the heat get to be too much, and after a while, you start to wish it was winter again (as if London winters are any better). Today is unusual in the sense that it's actually quite pleasant outside. 

Crowley has just woken up. He knows that sleeping in til 1:30 in the afternoon isn't sensible, especially with classes starting in another week, but he can't really bring himself to care. He goes through his morning, er, early afternoon routine in a matter of minutes- brush his teeth, pull his unruly hair back into a bun, make himself a healthy breakfast of stale cereal and trail mix. Following this, he throws on a pair of black jeans and the black satin button-down that he wore yesterday. He knows that wearing dark colors in 26 degree heat also isn't very sensible, but he can't bring himself to care. He's got an aesthetic to maintain. 

He mentally goes through his to-do list for the day: grab groceries, find out which textbooks he needs for the upcoming semester, maybe check out that little record shop on the other side of town if he's got time. His collection is still missing _A Day at the Races _and _Innuendo, _and he'd like to fix that sometime soon. 

* * *

By about 6 pm, Crowley is able to say that he's had a very productive afternoon.

The grocery shopping was especially successful. He managed to find everything on his list- ramen noodles, frozen fruit, boxed wine, more trail mix- and it only took him an hour and a half. He has also compiled a full list of all the books he needs for this semester, and is now in the process of illegally downloading PDF copies of every single one. As this process tends to be kind of long and tedious, he's watching reruns of _Golden Girls _as well, only partially paying attention to the plot. (Not that he needs to pay attention, anyways- he's seen every episode at least eight times. It's kind of a guilty pleasure of his.) As for the record shopping, that didn't go quite so well- he'd arrived at the shop a few minutes before close, and instead of taking a quick browse around and heading home, as any reasonable person might do, he ended up staying for about fifteen minutes after the shop was supposed to close for the day. The staff were not impressed- and Crowley didn't even find what he was looking for. (He'll try again tomorrow.)

He's well aware that there are probably more interesting things that he could be doing with his evening- checking out a show at that pub down the street that sometimes has decent live music, or grabbing something to eat at one of the many trendy little restaurants dotted around the city, but he just _can’t _ bring himself to do anything of that sort, not tonight. Plus, it’s not like he’d have anyone to go with if he _did _want to do any of those things. Sure, he’s got a few friends in London, but they’re not really the types of people who he’d want to spend a Monday evening with, if given the choice. Simply put, he likes being alone, but often struggles with the nervousness that comes with doing things by oneself.

So instead, he sits on the little couch in his little flat, watching _Golden Girls _and swearing at his laptop as Google Chrome crashes and he loses all of his in-progress downloads. 

* * *

Somewhere, on the other side of London, a businessman pays for his overpriced latte and croissant in a tiny coffeeshop.

The shop's only been there for a couple of weeks now, but it seems to be doing rather well. It's got a lot of very modern decor, all clean lines and sharp edges and shades of white and grey, and a lot of very fancy-sounding names on the menu. It's one of those places where you can't _ just _order a plain bagel- it has to be a whole-grain bagel with avocado spread and fresh peppercorns, and it's gonna be $6.50, please and thank you.

There are only two baristas on the floor right now- the place is terribly understaffed, as these new little shops often are- but they seem to be managing just fine. One of them is behind the till, the other's making drinks.

A group of schoolchildren approaches the counter and orders four freshly-baked macadamia nut cookies with almond butter in the middle. The barista behind the till grabs their food, offers to heat it up in the microwave for them, and wishes them a lovely day as they leave the shop. 

He's only been working here for two weeks, but he thinks he is doing rather well so far. The job is easy enough (albeit a bit boring at times), and he likes getting to know the customers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know what the weather in London is like. The weather app on my phone tells me that it's not very hot or sunny there right now. 
> 
> Anyways, there's a bit of human!Crowley's character for you. Also, the chapters will get longer pretty soon- for these first ones it just made more sense to keep them on the shorter side.


	2. evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's a more Aziraphale-focused chapter. The song for this one is Doing Alright, by Queen!

Aziraphale thought today would be busier. 

Over the past hour, he's served _ maybe _ ten customers. This would be normal early in the morning, or much later in the day, but it's unusual for mid-afternoon. 

Maybe it's the nice weather? It's been beautiful outside all week; almost unseasonably warm for early September.

Ah, well, he figures he can't complain too much. It's nice to have a bit of a break. His last shift had been busy, which had been both fun and stressful- fun because he got to talk to lots of customers and make lots of different drinks, stressful because he kept messing up orders, and because there'd been a line almost out the door at one point. His supervisor-slash-fellow-barista, Gabriel, had yelled at him, told him to hurry up.

(It wasn't _ real _ yelling or anything, it was more of a _ we're short staffed and I can't deal with it _sort of yelling. He'd apologized afterwards, anyways.) 

Aziraphale tidies up the cupboards and stocks the display case and wipes down the counter and sweeps the entire shop. Once he's finished all of that, he goes through the entire process again.

Twenty five minutes pass.

Aziraphale_ wishes _today was busier.

* * *

Eventually, 6:30 pm rolls around and Aziraphale is done for the day. He's relieved. That shift felt like it was never gonna end.

His route home involves two separate buses and takes a little under an hour. Anyone else might find this a bit tedious, but Aziraphale doesn't mind. He uses this time to read.

Asking Aziraphale what he likes to read is a difficult task, simply because he never has a consistent answer- it's always a little bit of everything. He reads whatever he can get his hands on- newspapers, both domestic and foreign; old novels from secondhand bookshops, encyclopedias and manuals on obscure topics, borrowed from the local library; short stories and poems published online by independent authors. Right now he's making his way through a historical fiction novel centered on early modern England, as well as a poetry blog he found a couple of weeks ago, filled with short, thoughtful pieces, written in a flowy, abstract style.

Throughout his undergraduate degree, he always loved visiting his professors in their offices and seeing all the books they kept- his seventeenth century lit prof's collection of special-edition Shakespearean works was his personal favorite. Right now he's too broke to have a decent sized collection of his own, but he knows he'll get there one day. He's even thought about applying for another degree and maybe someday becoming a literature prof himself, with his own office full of books, but he's still undecided on whether a job like that would be a good fit for him. He also kinda wants to start his own independent bookshop, with lots of cool, obscure titles. 

Or maybe become an author. That's another idea. He's got plenty of half-written stories that he'd love to do something with.

Or an editor, so he can read _ other _people's stories all day long. That's what editors do, right? He's not actually sure about all the specifics.

He'll figure it out eventually.

Eventually, Aziraphale arrives back at his flat. He begins making dinner right away, from a new recipe he found online- spaghetti squash pasta with roasted vegetables and tomato sauce. If books are his greatest love, then a good meal might just be a close second. 

(Plus, he always feels very mature when he cooks his own food. He's only been living on his own for a few months, and this is one thing that reminds him that he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.) 

Once his supper's ready, he settles in with a glass of cheap chardonnay and his half-finished novel. He’s gotten to the bit where the Act in Restraint of Appeals has just been passed, and he cannot _ wait _to find out what happens next.

As he reads, the early September sunset filters through the blinds, casting the tiny living room in orange light. The flat gets a bit chilly this time of day, but Aziraphale doesn't mind; it's a nice change from the daytime heat. He wraps himself in the throw blanket that he keeps on the couch (partly for decoration, partly for this specific purpose) and allows himself to get lost in the pages of his book.

Aziraphale is at peace with the world.


	3. sleepless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Crowley now. Song for this chapter is Question, by the Moody Blues.

The first week of classes is mostly uneventful, as per usual. Everybody likes to think it'll be fantastically fun and exciting, but it never _ really _ is- just a whole lot of going over syllabi and waiting in lines at the campus bookstore. It is especially mundane for the PhD students at the University of London, who have already done this first-day-of-fall-semester thing several times over. 

Crowley's schedule for this semester is not particularly busy, which he likes. He's working as a TA for a lower-level medieval history course, which is scheduled for 11 AM three times a week. (He wouldn’t have picked medieval history if he had the choice- the early modern period has always been more interesting to him, but there just aren’t that many courses on that era being taught this semester. So, Middle Ages it is.) He is also enrolled in one seminar course, which meets on Friday afternoons. This gives him a lot of free time on Mondays and Wednesdays, and even more on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 

Of course, Crowley's also got that research assistant thing that he has to do this term. That sounds like it will take up most of his time on the weekends, but he can't really complain. He's been bored lately.

On one especially boring Tuesday morning, he decides to draw himself a nice little copy of his schedule, as if maybe that'll help him to get all of his work done on time this semester, or something like that. (He doesn't actually have much of an explanation for it- he just thinks it could be useful.) He even gets out the highlighters and gel pens that he hasn't touched since undergrad.

_ HIST 231 _ goes in three of the boxes, and _ HIST 702 _ goes in one big box. _ Research shit _ fills up two whole cells on the right side of the page, since Crowley doesn't know what times he’ll be doing that at yet. He decorates the sheet of looseleaf paper with doodles of flowers and leafy plants, like the ones he has spread around his flat. 

Crowley can't help but think that this is very out of character for him. 

Oh, well. Not like anyone needs to see the damn thing.

He posts it on his fridge with clay magnets that look like succulents.

* * *

Crowley has learned, in the time that he's been in school, that overthinking is one of the easiest ways that he can screw himself over. It’s one of those shitty habits that he's had all his life, but that got worse when he started uni and was on his own for the first time.

Similarly, insomnia screws him over on a semi-regular basis as well, but that's a little harder for him to control. (Crowley also blames that on bad habits- several years of staying up late to finish schoolwork have not done him any favors.)

The worst thing, he finds, is when both the overthinking and the insomnia decide to make themselves present at the same time.

He figures he's been lying awake for about two hours now. He's done the switch-positions-over-and-over thing, and he's drawn the curtains so that no outside light seeps into his room, and he's even made himself a cup of lavender tea- all to little avail. He _ hates _not being able to sleep, especially when he knows he has to be up early the next morning. (He wonders, for a moment, why he agreed to hold his office hour at 10 am, and considers cancelling it tomorrow.) 

There are certain questions that come up over and over in his mind on these sleepless nights. The biggest one, at the moment, is something to the effect of _ what the hell am I doing with my life, _ although _ am I being too impulsive with the decisions I’m making _ and _ is this damned degree even worth it _ are also pretty significant. He doesn’t _ enjoy _thinking about these things, but sometimes it’s hard for him not to. He's been second-guessing himself for a while now- when he was in undergrad, the idea of starting a doctoral degree at twenty-three years old seemed so appealing; so impressive. He'd spent countless hours talking to advisors and professors and TAs about his applications and researching different programs at schools all over England. Now that's actually started the damn thing, though, he's not so sure anymore. The first-year excitement has worn off, and all he feels is exhaustion. He's not even sure what he's gonna do once he's done school- that's something that he avoids thinking about as much as possible. 

Eventually, he gets up and fetches himself a melatonin tablet and a glass of water, and waits a bit.

This does absolutely nothing. If anything, it makes him feel _ more _alert, which he finds both annoying and concerning. 

Since he's already up, he figures he could try to be productive, at the very least.

He already knows he's not doing schoolwork. That would most likely just end in frustration. Instead, he digs out the little notebook that he keeps at the bottom of his backpack, finds an open page, and starts writing.

He doesn’t try to write about anything in particular; just allows the words to flow in their own direction until he’s got about a page’s worth of stuff. He wouldn’t say it’s well-written or coherent, but it’s _ something_, at least, and it felt good to get it onto paper. 

Crowley finally falls asleep around 4:30 am. Although he doesn’t have any real answers to the questions that plague his mind, he does feel a bit more centered; a bit more in control of his emotions. His notebook sits open on the floor beside his bed.


	4. focus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, lads, it's finally a longer chapter! And things are HAPPENING! Two songs for this one: Sweetness, by Yes, and School, by Supertramp.

_ Get a head start on the reading, _ Crowley has been told.

_ You'll thank yourself later, _ Crowley has been told.

_ It's so easy to fall behind in grad school, _ Crowley has been told, _ and so tough to get caught up again. _

Of course, Crowley has never listened to any of this advice. Why would he? Taking advice from others, no matter how well-meaning they may be, is not something that Crowley does. He _ especially _does not take advice on school related matters- he was an A+ student all through undergrad, and he did that all by himself, without guidance from anyone else. Even last year, he didn't have any issues keeping up with his workload.

And yet- he's beginning to regret not listening to everyone who told him to get his work done early. 

The worst part is that he can't seem to focus at _ all. _ Normally this isn't an issue for him, but today it feels like he can't read more than half a page without his mind drifting off somewhere else. It's _ awful. _He wishes he could pause time for a few hours or so, and come back when his mind decides to start working again.

For a moment, he considers driving up to campus and studying in the big library there, but he doubts that would help. That building tends to be cold and dark and generally not very good for getting things done, which is a shame, because it's a _ really _ good library, and he knows he'll probably have to spend more and more time there as he continues his degree, and-

Crowley finds himself getting distracted again. 

Along with going up to campus, there's always the option of just heading out and seeing where he lands- that works well sometimes. Last time he ended up in a big open park on the east end of the city, with lots of cool plants. That had been kinda fun- until he’d been informed that the park was actually a garden belonging to a local businessman, and _ technically, _ he was trespassing on public property. 

(Not that he cared, really; he just didn't want to risk getting caught and having to pay a fine or something.) 

Anyways. Crowley figures a nice long drive could be a very good thing right now. 

He takes the Bentley out with no specific destination in mind. The weather is still not too bad, only slightly colder than it was last week (but just as sunny). He drives around for a bit, passing a few of his usual study spots- the big library in St. Pancras, Berkeley Square, and Russell Square. Eventually he finds himself in Soho.

Crowley doesn't come to Soho often- the area's a little too trendy for him, or, he feels it tries a bit too hard- but even he will admit that some of the shops and cafes there are sort of interesting. None are the sort of place where he'd want to spend any significant amount of time, but he's looking for a change of scenery, and there are certainly worse places to spend an afternoon at. 

There seems to be a new one on the corner of Brewer and Lexington. The sign out front reads_ ineffable coffee, _all in stark lowercase script.

Crowley figures it might be worth checking out.

* * *

The barista behind the counter greets him with too much faux enthusiasm, and asks to take his order. Crowley glances at the menu, and back at the barista.

His handwritten name tag reads "Gabriel." His shirt-and-polyester-jacket combination reminds Crowley of the undergrad business students who roam the university campus, with their briefcases and cheap dress shoes.

Crowley orders his usual (black tea, with two sugar; pretty difficult to mess up), along with something labelled as an activated charcoal croissant, since he forgot to eat breakfast and it's coming up on 3 pm. 

He wanders over to the other side of the counter, idly scrolling through Instagram (because it's not like he's got anything better to do). For a moment, he considers becoming one of those people who goes to places like this all the time and posts photos of every single overpriced drink they buy. (Of course, in order to do this, he'd have to become one of those people who posts on Instagram on a regular basis first, and that's certainly not going to happen.)

"That's a cool jacket."

Crowley looks up. "What?"

"I said, that's a cool jacket." The barista on this end of the counter finishes pouring Crowley's drink and places it down in front of him. "I could never pull off a leather jacket, but I think they look awesome on, y'know, people who aren't me. And I like your patches, too.”

Crowley glances down. He’d forgotten which jacket he’s even wearing, which he knows is stupid, because he’s worn this same jacket every day for the past two weeks. Sure enough, it’s his old black leather jacket, which he’d picked out of a pile of clothes in a thrift shop about five years ago. The sleeves and pockets are covered in embroidered patches depicting poisonous plants, purchased off Etsy a couple of summers ago. 

“Um, thanks,” he replies. He takes a long look at the barista, trying to think of something else to say, because he feels awkward leaving it at that. 

He looks to be close to Crowley’s age, with hair so blond it's almost white, and hazel eyes hidden behind round wire-rimmed glasses. He wears a big, oatmeal-colored sweater over a white button-down shirt. Crowley thinks he looks like the human embodiment of the word _ soft. _

"I like your sweater," Crowley finally adds. "Looks very, uh… warm."

"Thank you!" The barista- Aziraphale, according to his nametag- gives him a bright smile. "I actually knit it myself, which took a long time, but I like how it turned out. Anyways, there’s your tea, Anthony. I'll grab your croissant in a second.”

“Oh, that’s actually- that’s not my name. Or, I mean, it _ is, _but- nobody calls me that. I dunno why I even gave that name over there.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale gives him a look that's difficult to read- Crowley can't tell if he's intrigued or confused. “What should I call you, then?”

"Crowley.”

"Crowley?"

"Yeah, uh, technically it’s my last name, but at this point, it’s kinda become my first name too." Crowley wonders why he’s even explaining this to a complete stranger. Sounds a lot better than _ Anthony, _doesn't it?"

"Mmm, I suppose," says Aziraphale, “but I don't think there's anything wrong with that name, either."

Crowley feels himself blushing. 

Before he can embarrass himself any further, he thanks Aziraphale for the drink and pastry, and heads off to find a place to sit down. 

* * *

Staying focused on homework doesn't seem to be any easier here. Crowley keeps telling himself that it's only 300 pages; it's not that difficult; he's done this before and he'll be able to do it again. However, the positive self-talk seems to be doing very little today. It's like he can read a whole page five times over and still not absorb any of the information.

He wonders if maybe the change of scenery just isn't working for him. This place is too bright, and the background noise is irritating. Maybe _ that's _his issue- although it doesn't really explain why he couldn't focus back at his flat either. 

About an hour passes before Crowley decides that this is futile- no work is getting done today, clearly. He closes the _ Sixteenth Century Journal _ article on his laptop and heads off.

The drive from Soho back to his flat is only about fifteen minutes, but unfortunately, that's still _ plenty _of time for his mind to go to all sorts of unwanted places. He can’t help but think of how burnt out he feels, even though the semester has hardly started; how he's never had this much trouble with school before; how he's still got at least another couple of years of this ahead of him. That last bit makes him cringe. He silently curses whoever invented the concept of the doctoral degree.

In all of his academia-induced angst, the guy who'd handed him his drink- Aziraphale- briefly crosses his mind as well. He’d looked like a damn storybook character, with his fluffy hair and rosy cheeks. Even his _ name _is unusual- and Crowley’s never met anybody who knits their own sweaters before.

He turns the radio up, as if the sound of Brian May's wailing guitar will help drown out his thoughts.

(It doesn't.)

Crowley _ really _ needs to get this distraction issue under control. Daydreaming about pretty strangers isn’t gonna get him anywhere.


	5. wishful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had something different planned for this chapter, but I got a new idea partway through writing it- and I think it turned out better than what I had originally wanted to do. Anyways, song for this chapter is Burnin' for You by Blue Öyster Cult.

Aziraphale has been working at Ineffable Coffee for about a month and a half now. In that time, he has gotten to know a few of the more, er, interesting regulars.

There's that red haired woman who wears dark makeup and leather jackets and seems to create conflict wherever she goes. She's a journalist, Aziraphale remembers, from that one time she'd struck up a conversation with him as he'd prepared her cappuccino. Nearly every time she's in, she's talking on the phone, going on about all the drama in her life- disagreements with friends, dates gone bad, tensions brewing at her workplace. Aziraphale figures she must be very good at her job. She probably has a knack for making otherwise boring news stories sound shocking and dramatic.

Then there's the businessman who's been going to Ineffable Coffee since it first opened. He always orders the most expensive items off the menu, sits down at a table close to the window… and then doesn't eat or drink anything; just throws his food and coffee in the trash when he leaves. Aziraphale finds this very confusing. He's sure there is a reason for it, but he doesn't ask, as he doesn't want to be rude.

There's also that one teenage kid who seems to have made it their mission in life to get on Aziraphale's nerves as much as possible, with their complete lack of table manners. They have messy bleached-blond hair, and they always wear expensive clothes, and they always, _ always, _ makes a mess of the shop- empty cups everywhere, food wrappers on the floor, drinks spilled all over the place with no apparent attempts to clean them up. It's frustrating. If Aziraphale was a more assertive sort of person, he'd tell that kid to cut it out.

Along with those three, there's also that one guy who always wear black and always orders coffee without cream or sugar and never says _ please _ or _ thank you. _ Aziraphale is a little bit afraid of him. He's gotten into the habit of pouring a fresh cup of black coffee and leaving it on the bar whenever this particular customer comes in, simply so he won't have to speak to him. (In exchange, he always leaves exact change for his drink- on the bar, not at the tills. No tip, obviously.) 

Of course, not all of the regulars at Ineffable Coffee are so difficult to deal with. For example, there's that group of schoolkids who always come in on Friday afternoons to order cookies (and sometimes hot chocolate, if the weather's chilly). It's always the same kid who places the order- the other three seem to talk very little, unless it's to each other, in which case they talk quite a bit, and very loudly, too (but not enough to be bothersome). Aziraphale figures maybe they're just shy around people they don't know. He remembers how shy he was as a kid. Mostly, he finds this group very pleasant to deal with, and he finds it very endearing when they tell him about whatever new after-school game they've come up with this week.

Along with interacting with the regulars, Aziraphale also enjoys meeting new people. He likes seeing what sorts of things people order (lots of tea and pastries, and the vanilla oat milk frappe seems to be very popular right now, especially with the younger crowd), and he likes making small talk about the weather and other somewhat mundane subjects. Although he knows it's not that big of a deal, he always feels bad for not being able to remember the names and faces of more casual customers.

However, there are exceptions to every rule. 

There had been that boy who'd ordered black tea during Aziraphale's last shift, with the nice leather jacket and black jeans. Perhaps _ boy _isn't the right word for him- he'd looked to be about Aziraphale's age, maybe a couple of years older.

He's been on Aziraphale's mind every time he's worked for the past two weeks.

Aziraphale has tried to memorize Mystery Boy’s appearance, down to the smallest detail- tall, and a bit on the skinny side, with wavy auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. Pale skin with faint freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks. Black nail polish, yellow-green eyes, dark sunglasses perched atop his head, and lots of sharp angles. He'd looked like an artist, or maybe a musician; definitely a creative type. 

(He also realizes that calling him _Mystery Boy_ is unnecessary- he knows this guy’s full name, for God’s sakes- but he likes using the nickname.)

Aziraphale keeps replaying the brief interaction over and over in his mind, changing it a little bit every time, coming up with all sorts of _ what if _’s- what if Mystery Boy had stayed to chat for just a few minutes longer? What if he was new in town and needed someone (as in, Aziraphale) to show him around? What if he’d just gone through a bad breakup and was looking for a shoulder to cry on? Aziraphale knows that it’s stupid to get so hung up on someone he doesn’t even know. The rational part of his mind is screaming at him to calm down, while the irrational part (which, unfortunately, often predominates) is telling him to keep daydreaming. 

This _ always _happens. Meet a cute stranger, chat for a moment, spend the next week or so daydreaming about what could (but never will) be. 

Something about this one feels different, though. Aziraphale really, truly feels like there could be some potential there; that is, if he ever saw Mystery Boy again. Perhaps that’s just his optimistic nature, but Aziraphale doesn't want to let go of that last little bit of hope. (He also considers that perhaps he's just bored, and his subconscious mind is _ really _hung up on the idea of a cute new boy entering his life. At this point, who knows.) 

The bell by the door chimes. Aziraphale would be lying if he said that there wasn’t a small part of him that hoped to see Mystery Boy walk in. 

(Of course, it's not him, and Aziraphale reminds himself not to be disappointed.)

* * *

"Are you feeling okay?" asks Gabriel, during a quiet moment in the middle of a morning rush. "You seem quiet today. Is everything alright?" Aziraphale isn't used to seeing him so concerned, but he figures maybe he's just trying to diffuse the awkwardness- to be fair, Aziraphale _ has _been acting a bit distant. He recognizes this- but also doesn't see the need for Gabriel to call him out on it.

"Everything's fine," Aziraphale assures him, trying a little too hard to sound cheerful. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all- but don't worry about me."

It's not entirely a lie. In theory, everything _ is _ fine; Aziraphale's got nothing to complain about. Mostly, he just doesn't want to explain to his supervisor that, after two weeks, he's still angsting over someone he doesn't even _ know. _

Throughout the rest of his shift, Aziraphale does whatever he can to keep Gabriel from asking any more questions. He puts on his best dealing-with-customers voice and does everything he’s asked to, and thankfully, Gabriel stays quiet. 

By the end of the day, Aziraphale feels slightly better about his situation. The shop has been busy, which is always a good distraction, and a couple of his coworkers have invited him out for drinks, which has the potential to be another good distraction. Even though Aziraphale wouldn't say he's especially close with anyone he works with, he still appreciates the opportunity to do something out of his usual Thursday-night routine. 

"Do you guys mind if we make a quick stop first?" Uriel asks as they pile into the Uber. "I have to pick something up at Heavensent Records, and I think they close at 7." 

* * *

Aziraphale has never been to a record shop before. As it would turn out, Uriel had special-ordered some obscure new indie-rock record, and she just couldn't wait another day to pick it up. Ah, well. Aziraphale can't exactly relate- angsty acoustic rock isn’t really his thing- but he figures he's in no place to judge anybody's music taste. He's sure most of his coworkers would have some interesting things to say about his own Spotify library, anyways, with all its Romantic-era symphonies and sonatas.

As Uriel and Gabriel are chatting with the cashier, Aziraphale decides to take a look around, captivated by the shelves upon shelves of vinyl. He thinks that a record collection could be a very fun thing to have, but only if he had a turntable to go along with it, obviously, because there's really no point in having a whole bunch of cool records if you can't even listen to them, and-

Aziraphale's thoughts come screeching to a halt as he turns the corner. There, between _ USED VINYL 60s-70s _ and _ USED VINYL 80s-90s, _stands someone a little too familiar.

His hair is down today, and it glows brilliant red in the later-summer sunlight that filters through the shop windows. He's got that same leather jacket on, draped over an too-large t-shirt bearing the logo of a band that Aziraphale’s never heard of. Clean black lines wind around the fingers of his right hand- Aziraphale wonders if that detail is new, or if he simply hadn't noticed it before. 

He looks _ radiant. _

Aziraphale backs away slowly, trying to look interested in a display of local releases. He mentally plots out his next move, making every effort to stay out of Mystery Boy’s line of sight. There's a part of him that wants so _ badly _to walk over and say hi and start a conversation- maybe ask for recommendations, or ask him what he’s buying; compliment his music taste and tell him his shirt looks cool. 

(He _ has _ to have have good music taste, Aziraphale figures; someone who looks like that and who hides out in the oldies section of a record shop _ must _ listen to some cool stuff.)

_ Would that be weird? _ Aziraphale wonders. _ Is that a thing people do? Just walk up to strangers and ask what music they like? What if he thinks I'm creepy, and then that’s the memory of me he’s left with? _ There's a voice in the back of his mind that tells him it’s _ fine _\- he might as well give it a shot; he’s got nothing to lose- but that little voice is almost completely drowned out by the reminders of everything that could possibly go wrong. 

Against his better judgement, he steals another quick glance around the corner. Mystery Boy doesn’t seem to notice him, thank God- he’s too busy studying the faded cover art of a record from the 60s/70s aisle. 

_ You’ve talked to him before, _Aziraphale reminds himself. 

_ But that was at work. You chat with everyone at work- and that was a _ really _ brief conversation. _

...and the self-doubt sets in once again. 

_ It’s different here. You can’t just start talking to random strangers just ‘cause you think they’re cute. _

_ This isn’t one of your stories, where the stars align and the main characters fall for each other at just the right time. Stop living in your head. _

_ He probably wouldn’t even remember you. _

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel calls out, after a few painful minutes of deliberation. "We're gonna head off. Are you ready to go?"

“Yeah, uh, one sec,” Aziraphale replies, voice shaky. “I’ll meet you guys outside.”


End file.
